


hate you better

by tallycravens



Series: Motherland: Fort Salem Oneshots [11]
Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: F/F, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallycravens/pseuds/tallycravens
Summary: When Libba & Abigail continue to butt heads in training, Anacostia decides to lock them in a room together for the night to work out their differences.
Relationships: Abigail Bellweather/Libba Swythe
Series: Motherland: Fort Salem Oneshots [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868044
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	hate you better

“I’ve heard better seed sounds from dead birds.”

_“What does that even mean?”_

“You know, dead birds? Like that pigeon you ate?”

The drill sergeant's jaw is firmly locked as she watches the two privates at each other’s throats once again. She would admit that it was amusing at first, but this many weeks into basic, it’s grown tiresome. It’s past time for Anacostia to teach them a lesson, so she marches forward, stern gaze affixed onto the feuding young women.

_“Bellweather. Swythe.”_

They snap out of it immediately, each of them swiveling their heads around so quickly that they nearly give themselves whiplash. Anacostia holds back a smirk, shoving them apart with one hand pressed to each of their chests as she steps in between them. With her brows sharply raised, the soldier doesn’t break eye contact for a second because she wants the privates to know that she’s at her limit.

“ _This?_ This is a liability. The two of you can’t seem to get your heads out of your asses, which I was willing to let slide, but now your rivalry is beginning to compromise everyone else’s training. That cannot stand.” She grabs both of their arms and tugs them toward the exit door. “The rest of you, continue practicing. I have eyes everywhere, and if you mess around, I’ll know.”

She drags them out, not bothering to answer their questions about where they’re going. They’ll find out soon enough. She stops when she reaches the empty space at the end of the hall, a defunct training room that will more than serve her intended purpose. Anacostia unceremoniously shoves them inside despite their objections.

“Work it out. I’ll be back for the two of you in the morning.”

_“But-”_

“Wait-”

Ignoring their protests, the sergeant gives them a firm nod before closing the door, tracing a rune on the knob and whispering under her breath. She has ensured they have no escape and no choice but to talk through their problems.

The door slammed in their faces, neither girl is feeling particularly pleasant or cheerful. In fact, they’re both pissed off and predictably, they’re blaming each other.

“This is all your fucking fault, Bedwetter,” Libba complains under her breath as she tries in vain to turn the doorknob, knowing before she even attempts that it won’t budge. Anacostia would never leave anything to chance.

Abigail pushes past her, hand on her hip cockily as she regards the shorter girl over her shoulder. “Uh, no. This isn’t all on me, Swythe, it takes two to tango.” Her finger runs along the copper knob in the oft practiced pattern, but when she tries to turn it, nothing happens. She traces the rune a second time for the hell of it with the same end result as the first.

Anacostia wasn’t kidding. The two of them really are going to be stuck here together until tomorrow morning. Libba’s stomach is already starting to growl in protest at the thought of missing dinner. Beef stew, her favorite. _Damnit._

“Well, what the hell does she expect us to do?” Abigail leans against the lock door, brows furrowed and frustration written plainly on her face. She doesn’t like to admit defeat, but Anacostia very clearly is the victorious one in this situation.

Libba rolls her eyes and sarcastically mutters, “Kiss and make up, I guess.”

“ _Two centuries_ of bad blood becoming water under the bridge after one night in solitary confinement?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “That’s wishful thinking.”

“ _More than_ two centuries,” she corrects despite herself, but then Libba sighs defeatedly, moving to sit on the floor with her back against the wall. “But...honestly, aren’t you tired? This... _us_...it’s exhausting.”

Hearing Libba refer to them as an _‘us’_ leaves a bad taste in her mouth, but she leaves it alone, knowing better than picking a fight when they’re trying to brainstorm a way out of here. They need to get their heads out of their asses, as Anacostia so eloquently put it.

“Okay, so what are you proposing, a truce?” Abigail seems incredulous, but reluctantly moves to sit down next to Libba. “She could’ve left us blankets, at least.”

Libba whispers hopefully, _“Maybe she’ll come back…”_

Abigail laughs, roughly nudging the shorter girl with her shoulder. “Yeah, right. She’ll come back with pizza and blankets, tuck us in and give us a kiss goodnight. Face it, Swythe, we’re on our own.”

“I guess we do kinda deserve it, huh?” She shrugs, pulling her legs up against her chest. In this context, she looks especially small and unassuming.

The room they’re in isn’t much to look at. It’s almost certainly made of pure concrete and is nearly empty save for a single metal folding chair. Talk about _cozy_. They aren’t proficient enough at the seeds they’ve learned to bust their way out of here, but she’s sure that was Anacostia’s intention when she chose to imprison them here together.

Uselessly Abigail gets to her feet to inspect the room, foolishly hoping to find some way out despite knowing Anacostia never would’ve overlooked a single detail. When Libba recognizes what she’s doing, she starts at the other end, surveying the walls for a single hole or blemish. Nothing. They meet in the middle with frowns and the taller girl sighs, tugging off her uniform jacket and frustratedly throwing it on the floor in a heap.

Libba gives her a strange look of disapproval.

“What? It’s getting hot in here,” she explains to her unfortunate companion. “Besides, maybe we can use them as blankets. Or pillows, at least.”

Libba’s eyes linger on Abigail’s muscular arms and she bites down on her lower lip, forcing her gaze back to the floor. “Okay,” she agrees in a defeated tone, taking off her own jacket and throwing it down on top of the other. “But I really doubt that we’re going to get any sleep. This floor isn’t exactly Egyptian cotton, Bedwetter.”

“I think I can handle it,” Abigail assures her with a smirk, moving to lay down and resting her head on the heap of jackets. “We’ll go through worse on the battlefield,” she says pointedly.

Libba snorts, ignoring her comment as she watches her from above. “You’re going to sleep already? It isn’t even dark yet. But I guess if you need beauty sleep, you have a whole hell of a lot of it to catch up on.” After lobbing the weak insult her way, she resigns herself to the idea of lying down together and goes to rest across from her rival, keenly aware of the uncomfortable lack of distance between them. 

It isn’t anything new, as they’ve gotten in each other’s faces for as long as they’ve known each other. The tension between them is there as it always seems to be and likely always will.

_“What? Like we have anything better to do?”_

She has a point. It’s not as if they can even play a game of poker, given that Anacostia didn’t even have the decency to leave them a measly pack of cards to entertain themselves. There isn’t much to concentrate on and Libba notices that Abigail’s shirt is riding up a little, giving her a peek of her midriff. She stiffens and swallows hard, trying to focus her attention anywhere else but on the other girl’s body. They’ve not been locked in here that long, she thinks probably less than an hour, but she is already squirming. 

She can’t help but hate Abigail, because she’s supposed to, because that’s what she’s been taught to do. Swythes have a duty to uphold the centuries old rivalry they have with the Bellweathers. It’s more about the Bellweathers than it is about Abigail herself, but there is no shortage of stories about the awful things that she’s done to her over the years in service of the long standing blood feud.

Abigail shoving a piece of a dead pigeon into her mouth, now that was something she would never forget. The revolting taste was something she hadn’t been able to get out of her mouth for days no matter how many times she brushed her teeth or swished mouthwash. But it wasn’t like Libba’s been a saint either. She’d danced with Abigail’s Cavalier out of spite, igniting the stupid vendetta she had been encouraged to stoke. She knew all the things she could do to hurt her and not only did she do every single one of them, she took great pleasure in it, too.

She was right. It took two to tango and both of them were equally at fault for what had happened between them. Their parents and their parents’ parents and so on, they had some culpability here too. This was on all of them and she has a hard time believing this is the first time that a Bellweather and a Swythe butted heads at Fort Salem. It probably isn’t even the first time that two women bearing their fabled names were locked into a room together to sort out their differences either, but clearly, it hadn’t worked then. Could it work now?

At this point, Libba doesn’t know how to let it go. It has been going on for so long. Letting go isn’t something she’s ever been taught to do. Letting go would mean giving in. It would mean losing, being weak. Libba Swythe isn’t weak. Trying to quash this ongoing battle between them feels next to impossible, but she can maintain civility if Abigail can. All bets are off otherwise. This has to be a shared pact. Nothing else will suffice.

“Anacostia did this because we let this rivalry get in the way of our training. She’s right, though. This could get us killed out there,” Libba points out diplomatically, “On the battlefield, none of this matters, Bellweather. I’ve always got your back where it counts.”

She means it, too. As much time as she’s spent hating her and plotting her downfall, she’s never actually wished for her demise, at least not outside of moments of intense rage. She couldn’t let her anger compromise her duty the way Anacostia feared it would.

Abigail actually smiles at her. “Obviously. The same goes for me. I’ve got your back _and_ your front,” she smirks because she just has to outdo her, “The only person who gets to kill you is me. Many, many years from now in an epic duel.”

“Not if I kill you first,” Libba warns her half-heartedly, holding Abigail’s dark gaze.

She chuckles, “That’s cute,” Abigail teases, leaning in closer. “Like you could _ever_ take me.”

Her hand moves to rest on Libba’s hip, a strange touch that she doesn’t quite understand the intentions behind. Her eyes are on Abigail and for once in her life, she can’t formulate a witty retort. The two of them simply look at each other, silence hanging in the air. Libba’s stomach twists and her pulse quickens as Abigail refuses to break her gaze.

“Your breath isn’t as rancid as it usually is,” she remarks cheerfully, the way she says it almost complimentary, making Libba’s breath catch in her throat. “So, about that truce…”

Slowly she blinks back to reality, pulling herself back to put some much needed distance between them. She’s feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated as Abigail’s eyes never leave her face. “Yeah. A peace accord. I’m not saying we have to _like_ each other, but maybe we can just let this go, at least in public spaces.”

“I can still denigrate you in private?” She asks, earning a nod from her competiton. Abigail acts as if she’s considering it, then comments, “Mm, but we both have reputations to uphold.”

“But wouldn’t it be revolutionary? A Swythe and a Bellweather, working peacefully alongside one another? _We_ could do that. We could be unstoppable together, Abigail.”

It is no coincidence that Libba is appealing to her desire to make her own name for herself. She likely feels the same way, and in that moment, Abigail feels a strange kinship with the illustrious Swythe. Bearing the weight of a heavy name is a difficult feat and often, she feels as if she will buckle underneath that pressure. This, along with nearly every other aspect of her life, continues to be relentlessly exhausting.

In actuality, the two of them have more similarities than differences. No one else understands what this immense pressure does to a person, the intense, back-breaking need to live up to a family name that often feels like an albatross around her neck. She quite literally cannot fail. She shudders to think what would happen if she did. She’d certainly be disowned but that shame would barely scratch the surface of the terrible things her mother would do to her.

“I’m sorry, Abigail, for the part I’ve played in maintaining this...farce,” Libba’s genuine apology cuts through the silence and her piercing thoughts. It catches her by surprise because it’s the first time she’s ever heard her say she’s sorry, about anything.

She offers her hand and Abigail stares down at it, shaking her head with a grin on her face. “A handshake? Swythe, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

A handshake is customary to seal a pact, but in this case, it’s too formal.

Wordlessly she pulls the other girl in for a hug. Their first. Abigail thinks maybe Tally’s affectionate personality is rubbing off on her. _Gross._ But Libba melts in her arms and she doesn’t hate how that feels. She tightens her arms around her not unlike a gilded cage, holding her close as neither of them says anything for what seems like forever.

“You didn’t apologize to me,” Libba growls, pushing her away unhappily and letting out a discontented grunt.

Abigail chuckles, bemusedly raising her eyebrows at her grumpy companion. “I’m not great with words…” She admits with a shrug of her shoulders that is mainly intended to rile the other girl up. Much to her satisfaction, it works.

“Bullshit, Bellweather,” Libba complains, starting to sit up before Abigail grabs her to stop her from pulling away. She makes her petulant demand in a huff, her bottom lip stuck out like a child’s, “You have to apologize too or this isn’t going to work.”

Abigail’s fingers brush torturously along the fellow private’s arm as a smirk slowly unfurls on her lips. “Oh, shut the hell up. I’ll earn your forgiveness, but in my own... _special_ way.” She makes her promise then demonstrates by gripping Libba’s wrist and holding her gaze intently as she guides her hand under the waistband of her uniform slacks.

“W-What are you doing?” Libba sounds nervous and uncertain, which is an unusual look on the typically confident girl. She has to admit that asserting her dominance and having this kind of power over a Swythe is undeniably intoxicating. It’s a pity this is the only time she’ll allow herself to give in to her forbidden desires.

Abigail unfastens her own pants with her other hand as she routes Libba’s hand beneath the waistband of her standard issue military underwear. “Giving you what you want,” she whispers breathlessly, trailing her lips along Libba’s jaw. “This _is_ what you want, isn’t it?” Her breath is hot against her face, making the curly haired soldier shudder in response.

“I don’t think this is what Anacostia had in mind-”

Abigail silences her words with a searing kiss and with that, the dynamic shifts, Libba’s free hand gliding into Abigail’s soft hair as her fingers slip into her with ease. 

This is what Abigail knows how to do, what she’s best at, and while she’s no expert at apologies, she thinks this might be her best one yet. 

She rolls her hips rhythmically against Libba’s hand, silencing her own moans against her mouth and surprising even herself with how much she’s enjoying this. She’d be lying if she said she’d never thought about this before. The tension between them could easily be interpreted as sexual and has been palpable for years. They have shared more than a few heated moments in all the time they’ve known one another, and in a lot of ways, this feels like a long time coming.

Abigail roughly shoves Libba from her side to her back, gets undressed and then repositions herself on top of her, letting out a sigh of relief when the other girl’s fingers enter her once more. This is more like it. She’s the one in control and Libba knows it, dark eyes trained on her with a ferocity she’s often seen from her before when she’s focused on training. Abigail grabs onto her hair, pulling Libba’s head back before she launches herself down to give her another bruising kiss. She intends to leave marks on every visible inch of Libba’s skin, intending to claim her as her own, if only for tonight.

She moans as Libba’s tongue infiltrates her mouth and she feels her fellow private grow bolder beneath her, her left hand now roaming reverently up Abigail’s bare breasts. Libba touches her differently, she realizes, than anyone she’s ever been with before. She can’t explain it, but it makes her feel different, too, and her head is swimming in a way it never does with the guys she gets her energy from. Because this isn’t about energy. It’s about so much more than that.

This is an exchange, an exchange of power and respect, a bad-bloodletting with the intentions of making a new memory to hold onto. They’re forging their own path toward allyship, in their own, admittedly unique, way. 

She isn’t in love with Libba Swythe. No, _definitely_ not in love, considering she doesn’t even like her, but she _is_ in awe of her. Abigail would never admit it, but she knows she wouldn’t be half the soldier she is today if she didn’t have Libba to compete with. She’s the stone that sharpens her blade, the only reason she’s this strong, and she likes to imagine that Libba feels the same way.

They are stronger together than apart.

Maybe Libba is right, maybe they really can change things, start their own revolution.

_This is how it starts,_ she thinks while wearing a smirk _, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Or...in this case, maybe both._

She rides her fingers knuckle deep into oblivion, losing herself in unadulterated pleasure as she stills against her, panting and trying in vain to catch her breath. Unforgettable. This night is going to live in her mind for the rest of their lives. Libba tugs her hand back but before she can clean herself up, Abigail grabs on to her wrist and brings her fingers toward her mouth. The brunette’s eyes widen as she licks her fingers for her, all without taking her gaze off of hers.

Libba quite literally trembles as her tongue brushes against her soaked fingertips, a fact that makes Abigail feel more than a little bit proud of herself. She’s always had quite the effect on her, but not quite like this.

“That was-”

Before she can get the sentence out, Abigail pins her to the floor and kisses her harshly. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

Libba snickers against her lips. “You. Many times.”

“Exactly. So shut the fuck up and let me take care of you, Swythe,” she purrs, aiding the young private in removing her clothing until both of them are stark naked, lying on a pile of their own clothes. When Abigail pries her thighs apart, Libba’s facial expression perceptibly shifts, and she pauses, “What? Is this okay?” Her dominance falters for a moment, only because this hinges on both of them wanting the same thing.

Libba nods emphatically before explaining, “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“I can,” Abigail grins, trailing kisses down Libba’s muscular body and taking her time to really enjoy the small sounds and movements every kiss elicits from her. “It was only a matter of time. I was either going to fuck you, or kill you.” With a smirk and a wink, she adds, “Still might kill you. I _am_ pretty good at this.”

“You’re good at everything,” she mutters bitterly.

Abigail’s warm lips brush against Libba’s inner thighs, making her jump. “Okay, I take it back. You can talk, but only if you keep saying stuff like that.”

“Mmm. Abigail Bellweather has a praise kink. Surprise, surp-” Her ability to speak is promptly cut off when she feels Abigail’s tongue against her for the first time. She quite likes her newfound ability to shut her up, thinking it might come in handy at some point.

Libba tilts her head back, breathing heavily as she holds Abigail’s head in place, her hips bucking desperately of their own accord. _This is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to her,_ Abigail thinks with a confident ease.

It’s not so bad for her either. She has talked a lot of smack about Libba’s appearance over the years, but she never meant any of it. Anyone can see that Libba is stunning. Besides, there is something incredibly powerful about making a Swythe moan for her. Her taste is sweet and musky against her tongue, almost addicting combined with the captivating sounds that keep slipping from Libba’s open lips. They have all night, and it’s becoming more apparent with every passing second that sleep isn’t at the top of tonight’s agenda.

“My goddess, your mouth is magic,” she cries out, pulling at Abigail’s hair as if it’s the only thing anchoring her in place.

She can tell by the way she writhes against her that it’s not going to take much more to get her off. Abigail’s pretty sure that’s a new record.

Libba is beautiful as she tumbles over the edge, her breath hitching, eyes fluttering shut and her back arching. Both of their backs are going to be hurting after a night spent on a cold concrete floor, but that doesn’t matter now. Nothing else matters other than the way Libba cries out her name, broken and breathtaking, and Abigail’s so struck by it that she’s drawn to kiss her, over and over so intensely that it actually makes Libba laugh against her insistent mouth.

“Abs,” she giggles, a sweet, innocent sound as Abigail’s lips move to her neck. That perceived innocence dissipates the instant that her teeth dig into her skin and she cries out, gripping onto the crumpled jacket beneath her. “Oh, my goddess, you’re going to leave a mark.”

After several more moments of alternating biting and sucking, Abigail lifts her head wearing a mischievous smile. “That’s the idea, Swythe. We’ll have everyone talking…”

_“Yeah, and they’re gonna know it was you.”_

She chuckles darkly. “And they’ll know you’re my greedy little bottom.”

“Fuck you,” Libba spits, frustrated because she knows what Abigail says is true.

All she says in response is a snarky, “I wish you would.”

Abigail’s wish is Libba’s command as she slides out from under her and starts toward the chair. She grabs onto the top of the chair and turns quickly to either side, her back cracking audibly and reverberating across the empty room.

“Gross,” Abigail laughs from her place on the floor, but it doesn’t ease the tension.

Libba’s still staring at her like she wants to devour her and she likes it. The girl commands her to sit on the chair and Abigail considers grabbing something to put under her, knowing going bare ass on that metal chair is going to be cold, but her entire body is already on fire anyway. She takes a seat and spreads her legs, making Libba practically drool for her as she approaches her on her hands and knees. 

_What a beautiful sight to behold,_ she thinks, _a Swythe on her knees for me._

“I’ll show you how much of a bottom I’m _not_ ,” she warns her, and as good as Libba is with her fingers, Abigail quickly discovers that she’s even better with her mouth.

She doesn’t need to prove anything to her, but Abigail has plenty of practice getting under her skin, so much so that it apparently comes naturally to her now. If calling her a bottom means getting treated like _this,_ she has not a single regret.

There have been boys, many, many boys, who have gone down on her, some more skilled than others, but never like this. She’s seeing stars, though she’s barely able to see anything at all through her lidded gaze, breath labored as Libba buries her face against her with the same kind of enthusiasm she puts into everything she does.

The worst part is knowing that Libba Swythe has ruined her for anyone else. Now she’ll forever compare every lover to her and none will ever be able to live up to her already high expectations. Maybe that’s intentional, she doesn’t know, and right now, she can’t bring herself to care either. Nothing matters but how good this feels.

Her tongue is unrelenting and firm against her, the intensity almost too much for her to take. Abigail grabs onto the edge of the chair so tightly that her knuckles lighten and she cries out, hips jolting forward painfully. When she reaches her peak, she expects some time to recover, but Libba gives her none. She never even stops, and she’s still sensitive down there, whimpering as her fingers join her mouth, coaxing out another orgasm soon after the first.

She still doesn’t stop and Abigail has to physically wrench her away, panting and shaking her head in disbelief. “Too much. I can’t handle more right now,” she explains as she catches her breath. “Fuck, Swythe, you really do give everything a hundred and ten percent, don’t you?”

“I don’t half ass anything,” Libba chuckles, pleased with herself and the way Abigail had given up control to her. “Who’s the bottom now?”

Abigail groans, squeezing her thighs together. “Still you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to be your girlfriend, Bellweather, so don’t even ask.”

She scoffs, trying not to watch as Libba goes back to their little nest of clothing. Her eyes follow her bare ass and she has to force herself to fix her gaze elsewhere. “Don’t flatter yourself, you slobbering sea hag.” The words feel harsh given what they’ve just done together and her face softens. “Sorry. Old habits.”

  
_“Die hard. I know.”_

Libba rubs at her neck, which is visibly inflamed and most certainly covered in hickies and bite marks. Given that they’re spending the night in here, there’s no makeup to hide the marks she’s left. Abigail’s beginning to feel regretful because there will be no denying what happened here tonight, and everyone’s going to tease them mercilessly for it.

_Oh, god,_ she thinks, _Anacostia is gonna know. But hell, maybe she knew all along that this is exactly what would happen if she left us alone together all night. Maybe this was her plan._

“So…” Abigail gets up off of the chair and joins Libba on the floor, running her fingers up and down her bare side. “Do you forgive me yet?”

Libba pretends to consider it, pressing her index finger against her mouth as she thinks it over with a shit-eating grin on her lips. “Mm, no. Not yet.” She throws her arm over Abigail’s side. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Me? Oh, no, I don’t cuddle,” she scoffs, as if it’s the most ridiculous idea in the world.

Libba doesn’t believe it for a minute. “Are you sure? Because you give off major big spoon vibes,” she pokes her in the back with her finger.

“Well if you already _knew_ that, why did you ask?”

_“So you admit it, you do cuddle.”_

She sighs, before clarifying pointedly, “Not with _you_.”

“I thought we were letting this go,” Libba believes her reaction is still part of their rivalry but it’s not. It’s about the different kinds of affection and what they mean. Cuddling, to her, is crossing a line into romance, and she can’t let herself go there.

“We are. Sex is one thing. Cuddling is too vulnerable.”

Libba shrugs her shoulders, pulling her arm away. “It’s going to get cold in here tonight,” she reminds her, pointing out the cold concrete beneath them.

It’s probably nighttime already, but they both lost track of time a while ago.

“I can handle it.”

_“If you say so.”_

As it turns out, Libba’s right...again. She has a frustrating tendency to be correct and every time she does it, Abigail wants to wring her neck. Only she’s freezing and in need of Libba’s warmth, so she can’t just strangle her. Dead bodies don’t give off much warmth.

She’s stubborn as a mule, always has been, but even Abigail knows when to concede. She woke up shivering and after a moment of considering, she pulls her arms around Libba from behind and snuggles up to her, cold nose buried against her neck.

They wake a tangle of limbs and Libba smirks when she realizes that Abigail ended up cuddling with her after all, but she knows better than to poke a bee’s nest, so she leaves well enough alone. As they wait for Anacostia to arrive, they complain about how badly they need to use the bathroom. The two of them busy themselves with getting dressed and they’re just buttoning up when the door opens.

“Thank Goddess,” Abigail makes a break for it, pushing rudely past Anacostia, not caring because she’s never had to pee so badly in her life.

Anacostia takes one look at Libba’s neck and simply cannot contain her laughter. It’s very weird, because Libba has never heard her laugh before and the sound seems foreign coming from her lips. But she doesn’t have time to be annoyed, running after Abigail toward the bathroom.

A redheaded witch peeks into the doorway looking triumphant. _“Told you,”_ she says with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> THAT was fun!


End file.
